The Empanada Brotherhood by John Nichols Page B

showed up at the empanada stand only Luigi, El Coco, and Roldán were there listening to a melancholy Carlos Gardel record on the Victrola. Greenwich Village was deserted and Roldán had sold only six empanadas, a pastelito, and two Cokes all evening.
    Luigi was hunched way down with his bomber jacket collar turned up. He was smoking a cigarette like Jean-Paul Belmondo.
    El Coco had on his filthy hooded parka and his gloves with the fingers chopped off. His unruly black beard probably harbored bedbugs and silverfish. He could have been a refugee from the trenches at Verdun during World War I.
    â€œI’m tired,” Luigi said. “I hate my job at the library. Why do I bet on the horses? I got drunk again last night and had another fight with a stranger. I always win because they’re afraid to beat me up. And whenever I look in the mirror I see Bela Lugosi playing a vampire or Frankenstein.”
    Gardel sang:
    When you’re not with me,
I can’t smell the flowers,
I can’t hear birds singing,
And the night is so cold.
    Roldán lifted the coffeepot. “Want me to hit you again?”
    â€œYeah.” Luigi nudged his cup forward two inches and the fat man refilled it. “Gracias.”
    I asked, “How come you’re in such a good mood?”
    â€œBecause La Petisa dumped me. You know
why
she dumped me? Because she couldn’t stand my friend El Coco. You know why else? Because I am gorgeous like Clark Gable and she wanted a more ordinary-looking man, like that toothless loser Popeye. Of course, I wouldn’t be so jealous if she had screwed me at least a few times.”
    He wrinkled his lip and ventured a sip of coffee.
    Then he said, “Dale, blondie, let’s take a stroll. I need more smokes.”
    We said good-bye to the fat man and headed north on MacDougal. El Coco followed along behind us like a hunch-back from Notre Dame. Snow had melted away completely yet the city felt clammy and cold. All the buildings seemed old and shabby and garbage littered the sidewalks. Luigi had only one cigarette left, but Johnny had closed the Italian Newsstand early.
    Luigi grumbled, “See how my luck is going? We’ll probably have to walk a mile for a Camel.”
    While we marched along the burnt man talked about his life.
    â€œI’m not a large man, kid, but I used to be in shape. Before the accident I had an okay mug. I come from a middle-income family, we had money. I loved the university. I had minas galore but they were not important to me. What’s the expression in English? Profe told me: ‘Find ’em, feel ’em, fuck ’em, forget ’em.’ Las muchachas were a great diversion, nothing more.”
    We crossed Sixth Avenue to the Shamrock Bar which had a cigarette machine. Luigi thumbed in a quarter, pulled a lever, and scooped up the pack. He lit two cigarettes and gave one to El Coco. We departed the bar and headed south toward the empanada stand. Some teenagers were playing basketball under the lights at the Fourth Street playground.
    Luigi said, “Then one night I lost my face in an explosion and, obviously, life changed.”
    â€œWhat kind of explosion?”
    â€œI was putting gas in my father’s car while also smoking a cigarette. Something happened, but I don’t remember. I woke up at the hospital. Months later they sent me to this country.”
    â€œBut you never had any operations?”
    â€œI’m not stupid, blondie. They couldn’t do beans with my face, even in America. They take skin off your ass and put it on your ‘cheeks.’ They transplant hair for your eyebrows. They shoot your lips full of plastic foam. You just exchange one type of gargoyle for another. But I like better this one, I’m used to it. The mask is inoperable and I’d go crazy if I nurtured illusions.”
    He stopped, tilted his head back, and squeezed out the eyedrops.
    I said, “You’re not a